Worn Out Jeans and Matching Socks
by Tezelshmack
Summary: Post Season 8. No real spoilers at all, just a one-shot featuring a quiet night in at the bunker. Rated T for some mild-ish language. Angsty!Dean, Recovering!Sammy. Dean POV.


**This is just kind of a slightly bizarre (maybe a little OOC) oneshot that gripped me and wouldn't let go until it had raised me from perdition. It INSISTED on being written (you know how Dean is!), but I promise my other story (Well Oiled Machine) is still in progress and not forgotten! Enjoy :)**

I think I'm sick. And the worst part isn't the heavy, sick feeling I have in the pit of my stomach. It isn't the brief flashes of searing memory that crawl into my head and force themselves, thrusting upward into my consciousness. It isn't even that deep seated ache in my bones that I sometimes can't distinguish from desire. No, the worst part is that Sam knows. My Sam, sitting across the table from me in our very own bunker right now, looking a bit like death warmed over. (Yeah, okay, not funny, I know. Sammy's a damn sight near prettier than Death, and I'm allowed to say that 'cause he's my baby brother, so shut up.) My Sam knows that something is wrong with his loser of a brother and now he won't stop until he knows what's up and can fix it.

Good luck with that, Sammy.

"Dean," he finally says, a bit pensively and not looking up from his book. "You doin' alright?"

No, Sam, I'm not doin' alright, because I'm being constantly _mind_-_raped_ by memories of hell, and purgatory, and Bobby dying, and Ellen and Jo dying, and everyone we couldn't save dying, and _you_ dying Sammy, and I just wish there was some way, _any _way at all, that I could forget all this and let it go. Release, or something stupid like that. I need release.

"Doin' fine, Sam," I answer out loud, draining the scotch in my tumbler_. 'That's right, Dean, just go on and keep lyin' through your teeth to the one person you know will always listen and be there for you. Sounds like a plan.'_

Great, so I'm going crazy now. Only the voice in my head starts to sound a lot less like me and a lot more like dad, and that is just _not_ _freaking_ _fair_, and I'm in my freaking thirties and shouldn't miss and want my parents so damn much that on bad nights I wake up effing _crying_. For the first time, I'm kind of glad Sam and I have separate rooms.

Only speaking of Sam, he's closed his book now and is just looking at me, a couple of his long fingers hooked loosely around the handle of his mug of herbal crap tea. Normally I would give him shit for drinking the stuff, but right now I'm just angry, and I don't know why, but maybe it's because I can't read the expression he's giving me. I can _always_ read Sammy. Always.

"What?" I snap, not quite making eye contact, but instead focusing on that little mole to the left of his nose that I know's been there ever since I held him in my arms for the first time when he was barely twenty minutes old.

"What do you need?" He asks, and I can tell by the edge to his voice that he's trying not to sound as gentle as he wants to be because dammit that would just make me snap.

"Sex," I answer, and lift my eyes to his for a second to gauge his response before letting my gaze linger along the rows of books to his left. His face remains passive though, and I start to wonder why I told him that.

Maybe so that he would sigh and roll his eyes and tell me to shut up and not be so gross. Maybe so he would just leave me alone.

Maybe- and my stomach actually turns at this- maybe because it's true.

Is it true? Is sex what I want?

_Yes_, my ever raging hormones tell me. _Yes_, the tightening of my jeans and tensing of every muscle in my body tell me. Yes, yes.

I don't want love, I want _sex_. Rough, hard, animalistic. I want to be manhandled and forced into vulnerability; _made_ to feel. I want to have a good excuse to moan and scream myself raw and hoarse because I know,_ I know_, it will momentarily negate the onslaught of ravaging memories, and because there's no other way I can vocally release all the years and years of pain and hurt that have built up inside of me.

_'What is wrong with me?'_ And it's only when Sam pushes his mug aside and leans across the table to _really_ look at me that I realize I actually said that out loud. And then the sudden fear that I may have voiced more of those previous thoughts grips me and I know my hands start shaking so I let them slip off the table to land in my lap, even though the action brings about a knowledge that makes me wince a little. "Never mind," I start to say, right as Sam whispers, "There's nothing wrong with you, Dean."

I stop then, and just stare at him, trying to ignore the fluttering tremble deep in my stomach and the heat flushing across my skin. I look into his wearied hazel eyes, expecting that look of pity, of _'you're broken and I wish I could fix you'_ that I know will only make anger rise up inside of me, hot and violent; anger that will only make me want to leave and fling myself into vices that I know will only be a temporary fix.

It isn't there, though. None of it. He's looking at me with a fair amount of bewilderment, but there's also something calculating about it. I don't like it, but somehow it makes the rising anger in me just sort of fizzle out. And then as soon as I think that word all I can think about is Mr. Fizzles, and Garth, and suddenly I kind of want to start laughing, and _why the HELL am I missing Garth?_

I let out a short laugh then, and we just keep staring at each other. "I think I meant it," I finally say, but my voice has gone all funny and will only come out quiet and tight.

"Meant what, Dean?" Sam is still there, not giving me any particular look, just… there.

I shrug slightly and reach for the glass tumbler before me that still holds some melting ice. "I'm not sure," I whisper, closing my _definitely not_ shaking fingers around the cold glass and bringing it to rest on the lust flushed skin just visible above the unbuttoned collar of my long-sleeved shirt. I roll the glass back and forth across my collarbone, willing this primal urge to subside. So far it's not working so well.

Sam is starting to look a little uncomfortable, sort of squirming in his chair and looking off to one side, then the other. "I can… I can leave, if you want me to," he tells me quietly. "You just do what you need to do to be okay. Just…" His too-pale face starts to grow pink around the edges and he finally meets my eyes again, his own pinched almost shut. "I just don't think it would be a good idea to bring any- anyone here." He finishes in a rush, and I almost want to just laugh and tease him to the point where he's almost gagging like when he was fourteen and I told him _definitely _far too much about a night I spent with a voodoo gal blacker than the night, with curves so voluptuous they made my head spin.

Okay, bad thing to think about right now. The room is w_ay _too hot and it's all I can do to stop myself from actually panting, so instead I close my eyes, fidget in my chair for a minute, and then lean over the table, pressing my forehead to the cool, well-polished surface.

"I'm not going anywhere," I finally say. _God _but that was hard to get out. But it's true. Deep down, I truly do not want to leave Sam's side right now, and so now way in hell am I going to. My primal urges can just piss off.

Easier said than done. I can tell my body is in a desperate state of w_anting, craving,_ and in a way it disgusts me that I can't control it. Am I really that desperate? To be at the point of physically _needing _carnal, unfeeling, passion?

"No," and I realize I'm talking out loud again. I need to get a grip on this. "No, I'm not going anywhere." I know Sam is still there, watching me, so I feel the need to reassure him. "And no, I don't want you to leave." He makes an uncomfortable noise.

"I'm fine," I tell him, mashing my face into the table, enjoying the lingering scent of cigar smoke and cognac. "Grab me a beer from the fridge and I'll be even better."

Seemingly sensing my physical discomfort, Sam practically flings himself from his chair and across the room. He takes his time coming back though, giving me the opportunity to begin drowning that carnal feeling with more scotch. _I don't want sex_, I tell myself, _I don't._

Okay, who am I kidding? Yes, there is a part of me (larger than I'd like to admit) that does, _very_ _much_, want it. But that's not the point. The point is…. What would be the point? That sounds stupid. So, so stupid. _I don't need to have sex right now._ The logical nature of this finally seems to hit home with me, right about the time Sam wordlessly holds a bottle of beer in front of my face. I take it without looking to see if he's watching, and casually cram it between my legs, settling it right up in my crotch. _Take that, you traitorous little bastard._ And after a second the chill seeps through my jeans and oh _damn _that's cold. And distracting. And really, really not conducive to whatever pleasantly hot fantasies I'd been entertaining earlier.

Sam's sitting across from me again, his own beer frozen somewhere between the table and his mouth, and he's giving me this look that's _almost _a little understanding but mostly just majorly weirded out. He starts to say something, but when I tip my glass of scotch back he shuts up and follows suite, draining a good half of his bottle before setting it back down. I stare at him and shift a little in my seat, maybe grimacing a little.

"Y'okay?" He finally asks, and his eyebrows are doing that little casually concerned wrinkling thing they do. I almost smile, but he doesn't need to know how much I love that look of his.

I take a deep breath then, and it definitely doesn't catch and shudder in the middle, and I play it cool. "I'm okay," I tell him, nodding my head a little. "I'll be okay, Sammy."

His nose scrunches and I know he wants to tell me not to call him Sammy, but we both know he likes it, so he doesn't say anything. I watch him think for a few minutes –god I can just s_ee_ the wheels in his head turning- and he finally looks at me thoughtfully.

"You want sex," he states, all matter of fact, as if he's never been embarrassed to talk about it openly before. "I could tell," he adds unhelpfully, and suddenly it's me that's feeling all painfully awkward and wishing I had never started this.  
"God," Sam laughs in a quick huff. "Sorry, that was a really awkward thing to say."

He's still just looking at me, his eyes strangely clear in his drawn face, and I can tell he's trying to figure me out; break me down layer by layer until he gets to the damn bleeding heart of the matter. What he doesn't know though, is that if he succeeds every blood vessel will burst open and it will all come out everywhere. Sticky, cloying, coppery blood will spill out over everything, tainting everything with the bitter tang of loss and despair.

I finally just can't stand to look at him anymore and I lay my arms on the table, letting my head fall to rest on them. My eyes are burning, and my crotch is numb, and I just don't friggin' care anymore.

"I don't want sex," I mumble into my forearms, knowing he can hear me. "Not really, I don't. I just… I just want…" my voice stops working then, as though something has lodged in my throat stopping if from coming out.

"You just want release."

Sam's voice is soft, un-judging, and a lot closer than I expected. I chance a peek and see that he's mirrored me, resting his chin on his arms so his face is only inches from mine across the table. I watch him as his gaze moves over my face, even though he has every featured as memorized as I do his.

"You've got a hell of a lot bottled up in there, Dean," he continues gently, his eyes going to my forehead to indicate it's my brain he's talking about. "Way I see it, you gotta let it out sometime, someway."

My eyes trace the dark circles under his and for a moment I'm so overwhelmed with… something… for this guy that it takes my breath away. And suddenly the only thing I really, honestly want to do is be with him. With a sigh that's meant to be steadying, I sit back up, relocating the bottle of beer to the table and twisting the cap off. I fling the cap onto the table, listen to it ring, and smirk affectionately at my little brother. "Let's get drunk, Sam."

He's still leaning his chin on his arms, and he looks up at me, his brow still wrinkled in confusion. I toss back the rest of my scotch and get started on the beer to make my point, and he leisurely sits back in his chair, a slow smile gracing his tired face. God help me, those dimples have twisted my heart for as long as this kid's been my brother.

As he tentatively starts sipping his beer again, I shove back from the table and cross the room deliberately. "Abstinence, Sammy," I inform him. "I've decided to give it a try tonight."

"So, you're getting smashed instead…" Sam muses, though judging by his tone he really doesn't seem too bothered by the prospect.

I give him a wide smile as I set the gathered armful of liquor on the table between us. "Hell yeah," I tell him breezily. "I don't even care how long it takes either."

He looks at me over his bottle and his eyes sort of glint with this look that I know means "challenge accepted", and my heart sort of feels like it might bust outta my chest.

I don't know how, but roughly an hour later we're both on the floor, flat on our backs. There's a small flame still glowing in the fireplace, and most of the lights somehow got shut out. It's quiet, and we just lay there, our heads almost touching, the heat from the fire washing gently over our alcohol flushed faces. Sam is loose as drugged cat, and I know I'm probably no better, but I couldn't care less. We haven't talked much, or if we have I don't remember what about. I remember wiping tears off my chin, and Sam getting snot all over my shirt, but now all I can feel is a relief so strong that it's squeezing my chest _hard_. I know I'm drunker than I've been in a long time, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm just so damn okay with the fact that my baby brother is alright.

He's right here next to me, sighing sleepily and occasionally giggling for no reason, his over-long hair splayed out on the stone floor and his huge body more relaxed than I've seen in years.

We're both in holey t-shirts, worn out jeans, and matching socks and everything is right with our world.

There's a small part of me that's gently trying to convince me that I've done something right. I have my Sammy here. We have an actual home, and we can get friggin' piss-drunk without having to worry about a damn thing because we're shut up as tight as can be in here. It's warm, and my insides are still pleasantly warmed from whisky, and beer, and brandy, and whatever else I managed to get my hands on tonight.

I flop my head over to look at Sam and realize that he's already done the same thing, his eyes shining in the dim light as he just watches me with that look that I didn't even know I'd been missing these past few years. That look that exudes a childlike trust in me, knowing that I'll take care of him and keep him safe. It scares me shitless, to be honest.

I'm so scared that I'll screw up again, let him get hurt, lose him. Again.

"Sammy?" I whisper.

He hums low in his throat. "Hmm?"

I'm quiet, not sure what I was meaning to say, my thoughts all muddied and slowed. And I'm right on the verge of telling him how scared I am, but then I realize that if I _say_ it, it will be so much more real, and I don't know if I can handle that. So instead I smile at him, and it comes easier than I thought it would. "Dude… we are gonna be so hung over tomorrow."

He looks up at the high ceiling and shrugs against the floor, stretching his long arms out so that his right hand just barely brushes my arm and stays there. "I don't care," he murmurs, and in the low light I can see dark shadows in his face that signal the appearance of those stupid dimples again. "Just 'member," he continues drowsily. "If you puke anywhere stupid you gotta clean it up yourself."

"Yeah, same goes to you, bitch," I answer, wishing my voice would stop going all husky and tight.

"Jerk," he breaths, and when I look back over at him I realize that's he's fallen asleep, his head slightly angled towards mine, his tired, pale face warmed by the firelight and completely devoid of anxiety and pain.

My heart is suddenly filling my throat and I choke a breath in, feeling hot tears creep into my hairline as they escape across my temples.

I am so friggin' wasted.

Without even caring a bit, a wriggle awkwardly across the floor so that my head can rest right alongside his, his hair tickling the side of my face as I settle next to him.

Screw dignity, the floor seems plenty comfortable tonight.


End file.
